


Of Swords and Cake

by DeathByMidnightCinderella (DeathByOtome)



Category: Midnight Cinderella (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, Gen, Humor, Nonsense, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathByOtome/pseuds/DeathByMidnightCinderella
Summary: There once was a prompt from a Tumblr conversation, and it led to a crack fic.“But imagine tho, like tea time, you just prop your legs up on the table because you’re so tired and he tea and cake is served but you have no intention of moving so to reach the cake you use your sword, making stabby noises, and Giles walks in.”And so, this was born. The end.Absolute, pure, unadultered, nonsensical, ridiculous crack, based on the above quote. Read at your own risk.How would Giles, and the other suitors, react, when the MC is dangerously tired, wants cake, and has a sword at her side? Who knows, truly...





	Of Swords and Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a conversation between two people on Tumblr about Giles' reaction to this scenario, which then developed into a ten-person roast at the hands of the princess.
> 
> Warnings:
> 
> Immense swearing  
> Silliness  
> Eternal plot holes lie ahead.  
> Mentions of Lid  
> Historically accurate sexism.

 

“So tired… so fucking tired…”

The princess of Wysteria is not a happy bunny.

Not today.

Why?

Because she’s just had the absolute worst meeting of her life.

It entailed listening to a sixty-seven-year-old bureaucrat from one of the most powerful families in Wysteria, somehow still alive even with the mortality rate of 1800s Europe, go on, and on, and on…

About the fact that she’s a woman.

“’Go back to the kitchen!’ He says. ‘Women aren’t fit to rule!’ He says. ‘You can’t be trusted with the country, with your unstable emotions and reliability!” He says. Well, you know what, Archduke Dickhead?”

The princess slams open the door to her room. It hits the wall with a thunderous boom, the force sending shudders through the brick around it. She storms inside, frazzled, glaring like death itself and eyes flaming with a hellish fury. She lashes the door shut again, going still and silent for one, very brief moment.

“Go fuck yourself! I wonder how you were fucking born, you douchebag! Superior male sex my royal _arse_!”

She stalks over to the chaise lounge, collapsing onto it and trembling with rage. She rakes her hands over her face and through her hair, groaning out a sound that’s like Satan yawning. At a time like this, there are many things she could do, but only one thing she should do.

Of course, she should comfort eat.

“Nico.” She moans out now, somehow expecting her voice to be audible to him halfway across the palace. She’s too tired to care about the logistics. “Nico! Oh my God, I’ve been abandoned in my time of need. Fucking men. Nico! I need cake! Nico!”

Her voice gradually rises in volume. She continues to tell, then shout, then scream, then eventually roar his name. Finally, the poor, unsuspecting boy rushes to her room, having been cornered by a group of bureaucrats and practically threatened with death should he not go and shut the princess up. He knocks swiftly, calling in a concerned but also timid and hesitant voice,

“Princess? It’s me… Nico.” He touches his forehead, chest and shoulders, praying for his life. “Can I come in?”

There’s a keening sound, like that of a dying animal. He blanches. “Nico, finally… come in. Please, come here.”

At the seemingly emotional request, he slips inside, not knowing what to expect.

What he doesn’t expect, at the very least, is to find the heir to the Wysterian throne draped lazily over the chaise lounge, face buried in a pillow.

He all but flies over to her, dropping to his knees at her side. His hands brush over her face, hair and arms, eyes darting over her form to inspect her for injuries. “Princess! Are you okay? What’s wrong? What happened?”

Without raising her face, she reaches up, catching his hand. He blinks, but quickly takes it and holds it gently, covering the top with his other hand. She sniffles. “That noble… Monsieur Idiot… I don’t even remember his name.” Nico begins to regret coming in. “He was so horrible to me. I had to sit and listen to him insult me for two hours straight because I’m a woman, and it drained me so much, I can’t move. I’m upset.”

The male at her side loosens up a bit, sighing softly and raising her hand to his mouth. He kisses the knuckles tenderly, murmuring in a remorseful tone, “I’m so sorry, Princess. I’ll report it to Giles, and he’ll reprimand him for you. Okay? What can I do to make you feel better? Do you want tea?”

She mumbles something, whimpers, then sniffs again. She turns her face to the side, finally revealing her exhausted expression and slightly red eyes. Her lip trembles just a bit. “Yeah. Can I have some cake, too? I need comfort food. I’ve finished my work for today.”

He inwardly thanks God for answering his prayers. Smoothing a hand over her hair, he kisses her forehead, then squeezes her hands before standing. “Of course. I’ll go and get you your favourites. Just stay there and try to relax, okay?”

She nods, hiding her face once more. Nico practically sprints out of the room.

As soon as he’s out and the door’s shut, he collapses back against it. He shakes his head, sighing out, “I hate days like this. I swear, we need to bring back the bell system. The nobles are going to have my head.”

Nonetheless, he wanders off at this point, going to retrieve the princess’ desired delicacies.

Unfortunately, having heard the Princess’ desperate wails for her affable valet de chambre, an innocent, worried Louis approaches her door soon afterward, knocking on it quietly. “Princess, are you alright?”

Said female stiffens, face buried in her pillow.

_Louis. Noble. Male. Monsieur Fuckface. Noble. Male. Angry._

She scowls. “I’m fine.”

He blinks, taken aback by her curt, almost hostile response. “You don’t sound-”

“I’m fine, ice sculpture! Go back to flirting with Sid!”

There are few things in the world that can make Louis cry. This is one of those things.

He shuffles away, sniffling into his hand. Poor him.

Little did he know, though, that the aforementioned information dealer is also at the palace today, also heard her crying earlier, and just overheard her insinuation about him and Louis. And he, like her, is not happy.

“Oi, Princess Cry Baby!” He snaps, banging a fist on her door. “Do me a favour and leave me out of your insults, will ya? I just nearly threw up in my mouth. Thanks for that.”

_Sid. Sid’s dad equals Archduke Grandier. Noble. Sid equals noble. Sid equal male. Monsieur Numbnuts equals noble and male. Angrier._

“Fuck off, Sid. Just get out of the closet and ride off into the sunset to thaw Louis out already.” She growls back.

Sid glares at her door, but there’s an undeniable blush on his face. He scoffs, thundering down the corridor.

Next to be exposed to her wrath is Alyn. After seeing Sid storm down the corridor like death itself, and having heard his princess’ desperate cries for Nico, he hurries to her door, interrogating, “Hey, Princess! Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you? Did that noble do something?”

She keens into the pillow, whining back, “He hurt my pride as a woman and a human. He’s such a douche.”

Alyn pauses, genuinely taken aback by her words, before he frowns and presses, “What the hell did he do, considering how much noise you were maki-”

She doesn’t even have to think about this anymore. Every one of her potential suitors are male and have either an inherited title, or a perhaps less-than-official adopted one. They all deserve the same treatment… in theory.

“You wouldn’t understand, Alyn! You’re not a girl! You’re a noble as well! You’re in a fabulous fucking position in this society! It’s 1832! Leave me alone!”

Her insults elicit no reaction from him in the slightest. Alyn is not arsed. He just shakes his head, wandering off to go bake a cake. If only the princess knew.

Leo, with his sensitive hearing, has heard all the commotion on his rounds through the corridors, and now rushes to her door, asking carefully, “Princess, what did he say? Do you need a hug? You know you love my hugs.”

She considers this for a second.

_Thinks I need hug. Thinks my emotions are all over the place. Monsieur Dickwad thought the same._

“I would not accept a hug from you right now if you were the last human on the planet.”

Leo barely manages to drag himself away from the door, hand on his heart, pride and ego practically torn to shreds.

It’s at this point that Albert, Byron and Rayvis, having come to stay in Wysteria for a few days, pause in the corridor joined to the one where her room is.

There, Louis is sobbing into his forearms, just a little bit frosty at this point. Sid is, despite his lack of feeling toward anyone but the princess, kissing one of the maids into oblivion, she having pretty much died and gone to heaven in his arms. Alyn had been going to bake, but has stopped in amazement at the two before him. Now, he’s howling with laughter, in stitches at his brother’s pathetic form; Leo’s given up and collapsed against the wall, staring lifelessly at the ground, clutching his chest all the while.

The two Steiners and Bergenian watch on mutely for a long few seconds. Albert’s too busy blushing at Sid’s make out session to take in anything else, Rayvis is studying Louis cry his heart out with a blank expression, and Byron is taking in every single one of them, trying to make sense of what’s going on.

It’s now that, thankfully, Nico returns to the princess’ room with a rather large cart of desserts, treats and sweets, as well as a plentiful amount of tea. He heads inside timidly when she calls him in, finding her in the same position as before. He swallows hard, wheeling the cart over to the table in front of the chaise lounge, a little bit away from her. “Here you are, Princess. Would you like me to stay with you?”

She doesn’t respond for a long few seconds. Then, she very slowly drags herself up, almost zombie-like, hair obscuring her face from view. “Thanks, Nico. I’d rather be alone right now, to be honest. I don’t quite feel like myself.”

_I’ve never been so grateful to God in my life._

Nico sighs inwardly in relief, nodding sympathetically on the outside. “Of course. I’ll stay nearby in case you need me, okay? Call if you do.”

She nods back mutely. He backs out of the room, shutting the door.

She sighs heavily, tired, stressed, starving and craving sweets. She drops back against the lounge, groaning, and props her legs up on the table.

She can’t move any more than that; she doesn’t have the energy.

She also can’t reach the large cake she wants.

It looks so delicious, sat atop a plate on the top of the cart. It’s covered in cream and swirls, because fuck logic and historical accuracy, and she wants it so bad. She whimpers, reaching out to it as if doing so will summon it to her by magic. “Come here. Please, get in my stomach. I need you.”

It doesn’t move. How disappointing.

_Needs must, I guess._

She huffs, reaching down and tugging her dress’ skirts up, baring her leg all the way up to her thigh. A sword rests against it, strapped snugly to a holster. She unstraps it and throws her skirts back down, eyeing the cake. “In the wise words of the Scots, beautiful creation of man, get in my belly.”

With that, she chops at the cake with artful arcs, sending the sharp, offending blade into it over and over again. She’s almost hilariously precise, slicing it into perfect pieces despite her tiredness. She imagines that the cake is Monsieur Arsehole, and proceeds to make noises as she now hacks at it, grumbling under her breath, “Stab, stab, stab… squish… squish… die, you bastard… fuck you.”

Back to Nico, the poor thing.

He almost collapses there and then, outside her room, with fear. He stumbles away down the corridor, realising that he’s sweating and shaking with terror, and manages to avoid overhearing the ensuing patisserie carnage going on inside. He shivers, imagining what she’d be capable of if she wasn’t as fond of him as she is. He shakes his head slowly, attempting to calm down. “I can only say I’m grateful to Gerald for a few things, and my cute face is one of them. Actually, it probably came from mother. Fuck you, Gerald.”

He speaks the last words just as he rounds the corner, coming face-to-face with Albert, Byron and Rayvis. He pales instantly. “A-Al? King Byron? Archduke Harneit? W-Why are you here?”

Albert scowls at the younger boy. “Perhaps for the stay we’ve had scheduled for the past month, dimwit. You must be a new degree of awful at your job if you can’t even remember that.”

Byron ignores Albert’s spiting words, noticing Nico’s off behaviour. “Is there something wrong, Nico? You look unwell. Are you ill?”

Rayvis makes a sound of agreement. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Nico shakes his head swiftly, stuttering out, “N-No! It’s- it’s just- er-”

Footsteps sound behind him. He freezes, then whirls around, peeking back down the corridor from the corner.

Giles stands at the door, knocking on it lightly. Nico covers his mouth, saying another seven prayers for the Chamberlain. “Be strong, Giles. Don’t say anything rash. Don’t upset her. Don’t make her even angrier.”

Albert, Byron and Rayvis watch as well, studying Giles call in to the Princess Elect, “Princess, I was informed that you are feeling unwell. May I come in?”

There’s a mumble of sound. Giles opens the door, heading inside. Nico, Albert, Byron and Rayvis wait pensively, the air around them intense.

Giles enters the Princess Elect’s room, and doesn’t even manage to close the door before he practically turns to stone.

The cake has been all but obliterated, a mere pile of delicious, mushy mess atop the plate. The princess gives it a last few chops, ignoring his presence, before sighing and skilfully manoeuvring some of the cake onto the sword. She brings it to her mouth, humming in blissful, awed joy at the heavenly taste. She continues to nom away at the pile of cake on the sword’s blade, before she finally finishes and focuses on Giles. Her stare flattens. “What?”

Giles Christophe, for once, is absolutely speechless. He genuinely can’t respond.

She rolls her eyes, unamused by the interruption. “Look, I’m in a bad mood. Unless Stein is on our ass about that stupid we-tried-to-annex-you-but-you-beat-us-and-now-we-hate-you thing, or Alder is trying to set us on fire, or Protea has declared war – again – or my mother contacted us, you do not have legitimate reason to be here. Say something, or leave.”

She narrows her eyes, the sword suddenly whirling around in her hand, pointed straight at his face. “And you’re all fucking obsessed with cakes, so you’re probably horrified that it’s a pile of baked remains right now. I don’t give a toss. Insult the cake, you get the stake, fucker.”

Giles has never, ever, ever, ran away from a monarch before.

Well, there’s a first time for everything.

He bolts out of her room, shutting the door behind him, traumatised by what he just witnessed.

Down the corridor, Nico, Albert, Byron and Rayvis stare on in amazement. Te Chamberlain drifts past them, fingers almost drilling into his temple, pallor sickly pale and expression mortified. “Princess… sword… cake… slaughter… horror… inhumane… never forget… rest in peace… save the cake 1832…”

He reaches the cluster of depressed Louis, trying-to-prove-his-sexuality Sid, hysterical Alyn and ego-less Leo, knocking into the latter’s foot on the way past. He seems to almost stiffen, then collapses to the ground, landing in a now panting, flushed, traumatised mess on the ground.

Nico winces. “Ouch.”

Rayvis tilts his head. “He looks ill.”

Byron grunts. “It’s like whatever he saw induced some sort of sickness in him.”

Nico presses his lips firmly together.

_Oops. Looks like she caused him to have an episode. He’ll probably get over it._

Albert turns to Byron very slowly. “Your Majesty, we should leave at once.”

Nico grabs onto Byron’s sleeve, pleading without even using the proper title, “Byron, please take me with you. Otherwise, I’m left with her, and I’ll end up like this as well. Please save me. I’m your brother. I love you.”

Byron stares at Nico’s puppy dog eyes for a long few seconds. Albert’s own snap to his king’s face, voice imploring desperately, “Please, leave him with her. She might shock some common sense and maturity in him.”

It takes Byron another two seconds to decide.

He tugs Nico into his side, smiling gently and stroking his hair. “Al, don’t be cruel. He’s already been traumatised enough. I could hardly leave my little brother behind with such danger.”

Rayvis blinks, muttering, “Since when is he all for the big brother role?” Sighing to himself, he speaks louder, asking, “What should we do now, then?”

Byron coaxes Nico with him as he steps over the downed Wysterian forms around him, answering, “A safe place.”

…

Ten minutes later, Albert, Byron, Nico and Rayvis sip at their tea in Robert’s studio.

“… and then Giles came ghosting out like he’d seen mass murder, muttering something about a sword, cake, slaughter and rest in peace.”

Robert chuckles, sipping at his own tea. “Ah, so that’s why it’s so quiet today. That makes sense.”

Rayvis glares at him from the side. “Fuck you.”

Robert’s smile becomes strained. “You’re never going to be in the same room as me without cursing my existence, are you?”

“No.”

The painter sighs.

Byron chips in now, asking, “You sound unsurprised by this. Is there something we should know about Wysterian culture, or the palace, in relation to this?”

Robert’s smile comes back full-force. He grins away, laughing out, “Not really. It’s actually isolated to the princess.”

Albert’s already empty stare morphs into a black hole. “Stop being so vague. Explain.”

Rayvis makes a face at Robert. “I really hate you.”

Robert brushes the insults off, singing out in a wistful, nostalgic tone, “Oh, the princess has always done this. Ever since she was little, when she got tired or angry, she’d demand cake, and then use the sword she managed to steal from a knight when she was young to cut it up since her mother would keep it on the table, out of her reach. Ignore the act that she shouldn’t have been able to get cake since she was a commoner.”

The room is silent. Robert hums, sipping his tea once more.

Byron makes a sound deep in the back of his throat. “Albert.”

The right-hand man’s eyes practically blaze with relief. “Eliminate the Princess Elect as a potential candidate for queen, Your Majesty?”

The king’s lips twitch up. “Not quite.”

Nico pales at the rare expression. “Oh my God.”

A certain brunette’s glare intensifies. “You’re a liar, Robert.”

A sigh from the glare’s target. “I know, Rayvis. I have already apologised, eighty-two times to be exact, since the princess forced me to stop avoiding it all.”

Rayvis narrows his eyes suspiciously. “I still hate you.”

Robert can only smile, breathing out a forcedly cheerful, “I know.”

“What would you have me do, Your Majesty?” Albert now questions, looking scared. Byron thinks for a moment.

“… prepare an invitation of political marriage between Stein and Wysteria.”

Albert chokes on his tea. “Your Majesty!”

Nico passes out, slumping onto Byron’s lap, dead to the world. He shudders in his unconscious state. “Psycho princess… half-brother in-law… never escape…”

Byron manages a full smile at long last. “What can I say? I’ve always said I like my women sharp.”

Cue a paintbrush being launched at Byron’s visible eye. “You’re dead to me, Byron.”


End file.
